Last week I spotted a tiny mitten in the gutter. It was cerulean blue and gray. I picked it up wondering who I should give it to. The police station? Do they have a lost mittens box? When I got home I admired it. My cat played with it, batting it around while I was in the other room. At supper I showed it to my husband. "I think it's hand made" I said. Looks like it, he said. I'm going to use it on my cast iron frying pan handle, I said. Great idea, he replied.
Now I am thinking about when I was a kid and my grandmother taught me how to knit. Grandma knitted sweaters in the dark at the movie theater. You'd hear click click of the knitting needles.
One day in 1969 my sister broke into my room and sabotaged my little square of knitting. It was a big deal to me but my parents never spoke to each other let alone to us. They didn't want to be "bothered" with parenting. Don't we hire people for that? I was instructed to bring up all complaints with my therapist who I saw twice a week for ten years. I did and he asked my mother to come into his office and have me wait outside where there was a stack of New Yorker magazines in the lobby. I was 8 years old. This wasn't exactly kid friendly therapy. I tell my friend "I was never a kid!"
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